


State of Dreaming

by SandyQuinn



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Henchmaniacs also show up but not v prominently, M/M, The lot, Violence and Gore, a lot of waffling about humanity and such, alternative universe, demon stanford, latter not v explicit tho, one of us au, probably dubious consent, tense sibling relationship, unhealthy toxic relationship, warning for: manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 09:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/pseuds/SandyQuinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford has a multitude of eyes now, more than two, (too many, Bill scoffs, and refuses to admit he’s jealous) and if he still thought like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to explain the strange sensation of looking at the world from multiple angles, from multiple dimensions, things past and future melding together with the tattered reality seamlessly – but if he tried, he’d probably refer his listeners to how watching the Bosch triptych made them feel.<br/>*<br/>A <i>One of Us</i> AU. Sort of. Yeah. Stanford is going to have to come to grips with some things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	State of Dreaming

The landscape reminds Stanford of something.

As he watches, the remnants of Gravity Falls crawl around on the battered, barren ground like ants, and a swarm of winged eyes circle around the floating pyramid in tight formation, like an open wound against the dark red sky. Something in the back of his mind opens the right door, and an image comes to mind.

 _Bosch_ , he thinks, absently, and raises into the air.

Granted, Bosch had taken some artistic liberties – the true hell on Earth is a lot more homely. Stanford recognizes the houses, even some particular trees, as he floats past them above the chaos, both mentally and literally.

He’d spent ages staring at the paintings, picking out the minute details in _The Last Judgement_ and _The Garden of Earthly Delights_. He’d closed his eyes in the musty library and tried to imagine himself amidst the chaos, amidst the wide, open space of glory and colours and grit and fear. The topic matter hadn’t been important – what had truly fascinated him, what had gripped some yet unrealized desire somewhere within had been the magnitude of space, the sensation of standing somewhere above a wide stretching horizon of chaos and beauty.

Stanford has a multitude of eyes now, more than two, (too many, Bill scoffs, and refuses to admit he’s jealous) and if he still thought like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to explain the strange sensation of looking at the world from multiple angles, from multiple dimensions, things past and future melding together with the tattered reality seamlessly – but if he tried, he’d probably refer his listeners to how watching the Bosch triptych made them feel.

“Bill?”

He floats effortlessly through the window into the penthouse suite, at the tip of the pyramid.

There is a bed, because Stanford had wanted one, because there is still something human in him that likes it: a huge canopied thing with a ceiling that opens into the space, and Bill glows like he’s trying to outshine the stars above him. His image is confused these days, flickering and switching with shapes, but he stretches his arms and he flashes a smile that Stanford registers simultaneously as a grin and as the narrowing of his singular eye.

“There ya are! I was starting to wonder,” Bill says lazily as he floats up in the air. They meet each other halfway, circling each other, and Bill reaches out, his dark hands cupping Stanford’s face as he draws him in.

It’s a strange sensation – he closes some of his eyes and watches Bill’s glowing form fill his vision as they kiss, and it feels like something faintly vibrates, hums, against his lips, and he knows Bill makes his mouth damp and warm on purpose. His arms circle around Bill, shadowy claws sinking in with no hesitation, and Bill’s fingers dip into the writhing mess of darkness under his coat, and for a brief, intense moment Stanford stops narrating the experience into his mind’s journal because kissing Bill feels like stepping into the middle of a hurricane.

“Y’know, if you ya leave me for Hectorgon, I’ll roast ya both for brunch,” Bill murmurs slyly, so close that Stanford feels like his words bypass his ears and enter his mind. They float in the air, the eternal fire crackling in the fireplace, and he’s taken in by a mindless whim – he kisses the mess of flickering images again, the triangle, the writhing monstrous tentacles, the strange luminous face. Bill squirms for show and laughs indulgently.

“I mean, if it’s _Pyronica_ , I might understand –“

“It’s no one,” Stanford murmurs roughly. “No one but you, Bill.”

“The centre of your universe –“

“So far,” Stanford says, and they’re hopelessly entangled – the remnants of his coat slip off his shoulders and drop on the floor. “I’m still charting it –“

“Tease!” Bill gasps, and Stanford feels ravenous, Bill’s donated power thrumming through him, making him want to topple down cities and eat the sun – they land on the bed and he wonders dimly if this would have felt the same as a human.

Bill didn’t understand it at first, and Stanford took great delight in explaining, showing him what it was like: he liked the idea that he could change Bill too.

He’s not sure what they should call it, but Stanford sinks his teeth into the shoulder that’s a writhing bundle of raw energy next, and he feels himself become more tangible, simpler, as he’s reduced into panting – Bill always talks through it, babbling, talking backwards and switching into languages that some ancient part of Stanford recognizes and something in him clenches when he realizes what Bill is saying. He’s nearly as powerful and he still feels so small when Bill deigns to be tender.

They struggle for a while and Bill laughs like he’s in the middle of some good joke, but multiple mouths brush against Stanford’s skin and Bill’s clever fingers reach somewhere deep in him and _pull_ , and the further they go the simpler it gets – there’s cloudy desire, hot breath, skin and lighting, and Stanford’s lips curl back in a snarl as he bows his head down and _takes_ whatever Bill gives him. Bill laughs harder as his form focuses enough for him to have a mouth, and drags Stanford down and they kiss again, bruising and biting and hungry like they’re more used to devouring. Stanford grits his teeth against Bill’s mouth and Bill grins against his, and he _thrusts_ , and finally, _finally_ there’s a whine –

Afterwards, Stanford lies back on the bed and gazes up at the stars. He can feel some part of himself reaching out lazily, disappearing among them, but he’s content – and Bill lies next to him, somehow dishevelled despite his confused forms, pressed against his shoulder, shamelessly shanghaiing Stanford’s arm as his pillow.

He watches Bill, blatant and satisfied, and feels like any sacrifice he had to make was worth it just to see Bill this undone.

“I want to take two planets and hit them together until they meld into each other,” Bill says dreamily. He often talks about the things he wants, whether Stanford asks or not. “Y’know what we should do? Switch everybody’s heads around. Let’s do that next. Oh! Let’s make it into a game! Ya ever play that thing where ya had to pick two cards that look the same?”

“It’s a children’s game,” Stanford murmurs disdainfully.   

“It can be a _drinking_ game.”

Stanford sighs and then sits up, dislodging himself from Bill. “Maybe later,” he rasps out. “I still have things to do. Stabilizing reality so we could play in it wasn’t easy.”

“Y’know,” Bill says, a little sharper now, sort of tensely jovial, “timeless or not, you’ve been running off a _lot_ lately. I think I’m starting to feel a lil _neglected_ here.”

“What, great Bill Cipher can’t entertain himself anymore?” Stanford asks, and immediately regrets it.

“I spent a _billion_ years entertaining myself, wise guy!”

“I didn’t mean it like –“

Bill barrels into him, and Stanford gets a brief flash of a mouth like a black hole with teeth and a blazing eye. “ _I_ made you! Yer here because you took _my_ deal, because _I_ gave you _anything_ you could ever dream of, and all I ask is that you’re by _my_ side, Stanford Pines! By the grace of _me_!”

“I understand,” Stanford says levelly, reaching out for whatever he can, to steady Bill, to keep him at arm’s length. “I didn’t mean to frustrate you, Bill –  there’s no one but you, Bill. No one.”

Bill settles reluctantly, eyeing Stanford with a mixture of sullen acceptance and suspicion. Stanford has a sudden inspiration.

“Next time I go away, I’ll bring you a present,” he says. “How’s that?”

“A present?” Bill scoffs, but Stanford can see his interest piqued. “Ya think you can just bribe me, Sixer? You think I’m some bored housewife ready to be bought off with a bunch of vegetables –“

“Flowers, Bill –“

“Well, I thought about it,” Bill continues smoothly. “And I like it! But the presents better not suck!”

“I’ll think of something better than vegetables,” Stanford says.

Bill’s temporary mouths curl, and he raises his hand – before he can even snap his fingers, a chess set appears, and he glances at Stanford, startled and pleased. “Yer getting real good, Sixer!”

Inwardly, Stanford counts minutes, hours, useless measurements that his mind has to slow down to remember, and then decides that he still has, in fact, time.

“I’ll take the black,” he says.

*

Later (three hours and twenty-six minutes) Stanford floats across the chaos down below, but this time he’s heading away from the pyramid.

He floats above the trees and the familiar houses that no longer resemble houses, no longer resemble anything comprehensible. He floats above the wrecked remains of the Shack and tries not to look at it. It keeps on smoking.  

In the horizon, the sky is yellow. Stanford is relieved when everything starts to meld together – when the outlines of the figures below become fuzzy and undefined, when a screaming, fleeing human becomes a caricature, flailing arms and legs with no distinct features. It’s easier to tolerate.

He stops, eventually, and tries to focus.

Six fingers on each hand, six toes on each foot, a little bit of stubble, more than Stanley has – crack on the left lens – one of his eyelids droops a tiny bit more than the other – moles, scars, wrinkles, hair, what colour was his hair? Mabel has a good eye for colours and it has to be just right. Dipper needs to be able to look into his eyes when he crouches down to talk to him. Stanley will notice any imperfection, any indication that he might be forgetting himself…

Stanford reaches out – there’s a trick to it – pushes himself through the surface of the bubble without breaking it, and steps out into the real world.

*

“You were out late,” Stanley remarks. He’s making coffee – sunrise filters between the curtains and his brother stands there in a singlet and boxers, shuffling around the kitchen quietly. He takes out the cream from the fridge without asking.

The unsaid judgement lingering in the air is so thick it could be cut with a knife.

Stanford likes cream in his coffee, he likes the luxury – or he used to. These days, Stanford has trouble remembering how to taste things the proper way. He knows Stanley puts the cream in to test him.

“It was important,” Stanford says uselessly. He really doesn’t want to talk about this with Stanley. Everything feels bizarre – too normal, too gentle, too ordinary, compared to the world inside the bubble.  

“Sure, important. I gotcha,” and Stanley dips about half a container of cream into the coffee, spitefully filling it to the brim. “Important – demon-wrangling business. Important all-night business.” He sniffs the air and grimaces. “Aw jeez – _at least_ take a shower before the kids wake up.”

Stanford doesn’t stir a muscle. He finds it easier to not be embarrassed, these days. “The inside of the bubble was rank. It’s worse than the actual Weirdmageddon.”

Stanley gives him a Look like he doesn’t believe a word of it, and shoves the coffee in his way. The lukewarm liquid spills out, and Stanford catches his automatically, levitates it gently into the sink. Stanley stares at him for a moment, frozen, and for a brief moment Stanford watches in fascination as his brother’s features struggle with a myriad of emotions – before it settles back into irritation.

“Don’t do that stuff in the house, Sixer, ya _promised_ – we wouldn’t tell the kids.”

“I still don’t get your reasoning,” Stanford says. “I mean, the kids – Dipper especially, he loves the supernatural, he’s like me in the regard, and Mabel, Mabel’s so accepting – “

“No!” Stanley interrupts, baring his teeth. “This isn’t some cutesy – unitaurs and hobgremlins, ya _geek_ , you’re a – I don’t even know _what_ you are! Some kind of a demon, anyway –“

“I’d call myself a demi-god,” Stanford says, coolly. “Demon is very ambiguous –“

“I’ll call ya god when Waddles takes up flying, Sixer!”

“I could _do_ that, you know,” Stanford starts, irate, and then stops himself – he feels like he’s falling apart, getting fuzzier somehow.

“You make that pig fly and yer grounded, old man,” Stanley says dangerously. Stanford lifts his head, incredulously.

“ _What_?”

“You heard me!” And Stanley points an accusing finger at Stanford. “You never did this! You never snuck home at five in the morning stinkin’ of sex and had Ma give ya disapproving coffee and quiz ya about calling her the next day – “

“And you think _you’re_ the one to do it now?” Stanford asks, flabbergasted. Stanley spreads his arms helplessly, making a face.

“No! But I’m the only one ya got, Sixer!”

Stanford puts the coffee down carefully. “Right. I’m going now, Stanley.”

“That’s right.” Stanley flashes a brief grin, some dark humour taking over. “Go to yer room.”

“I’m going to take that shower.”

“You’d better!”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Stanford hisses.

“I’m not disappointed,” Stanley says. “Just angry. That’s what Ma used to say when I forgot my date’s last name.”

Stanford reaches out, and the coffee cup he left on the table tips over and the contents turn into tiny spiders, before he turns to walk away. Behind him Stanley starts swearing.  

Despite the fact that his brother is a constant source of bafflement and annoyance and annoyed bafflement, Stanford feels a little grateful, a little relieved, at how easily the bickering makes him remember how to be a human again.

*

Stanford catches himself on the reflective surface of the screen and realizes he’s not smiling when he should be.

Dipper doesn’t seem to have noticed, judging by the rate the boy’s talking. Stanford knows he’s brilliant, he knows that right now he’s not only a genius but he possesses the kind of cosmic knowledge barely imagined by the brightest scientists in the world: but he’s still flattered by Dipper’s admiration. Dipper acts like Stanford should have a fan-club, and frankly, he thinks so too.

“- so my theory is that the innkeeper changed the cipher! The real treasure is buried in Oregon, specifically somewhere in Gravity Falls – “

“Pass me the dimensional pliers, Dipper,” Stanford says absently, as he tries to simultaneously take a look at the papers the boy is waving and keep his eye on his latest project. The realization of his human shape makes his head hurt.

“Oh, right, um – these turquoise ones?”

“Turquoise?” Stanford lifts his head and makes sure that he smiles, turning to Dipper. “You see them as turquoise? That’s interesting.”

“It – it is?” Dipper says, grinning hopefully. “What, is it like a personality thing, or –“

“Something more complex than that, you wouldn’t grasp it,” Stanford reaches out, with his hand, like a regular, normal human, to take the tool. “No one’s ever mentioned turquoise before. That’s rare. Could be good, could be bad. _So_ , you were saying something about the Beale Papers?”

“Right,” and Dipper blinks, his mouth jerking oddly – but Stanford finds it so difficult to focus on those tiny facial spasms while his mind deciphers the code on Dipper’s paper and attempts to construct a dimensional viewer at the same time. At any case, he smiled, didn’t he?

“Grun- Great uncle Ford, why are you building that thing?” Dipper asks plaintively.

“Why not?” Stanford replies, absently.

“Oh, I don’t know – “ Dipper pauses, scratching his mosquito bite awkwardly. “Maybe the whole – portal thing, the Weirdmaggedon, all that happened – I just kinda thought –“

“That we should stop trying out new things? Reaching new heights? Doing  – science?” Stanford glances at his great-nephew. “Dipper, I regret deeply what happened – for failing to keep this world safe, failing to keep my family safe – but it won’t happen again. I promise.”

“Grunkle Stan seems nervous,” Dipper blurts out. “Every time we come down here – and I know we defeated Bill, I _know_ he’s gone, but I just – I can’t shake this feeling like –“ he stops, wringing his hands, like he’s searching for words and Stanford waits patient, and feels the first twinge of irritation – because Stanley should _know_ that nothing is going to go wrong, not now – and here is Dipper, infected with the same toxic apprehension for anything outside their comfort zone, talking about buried treasure when his mind is still bright enough to actually become something worthwhile – and for a _moment_ Stanford can’t remember why he did this, why he became this _thing_ for a group of people he barely knows who just happen to share enough of his genetic material to be considered special according to rules that are made up, rules that are completely imaginary...

“Mabel still has nightmares.”

Stanford blinks and stares at Dipper, focuses on his tan face and his thin arms, his wide, worried pupils, until he feels he’s all present again. Dipper takes a deep breath, and continues, voice uselessly perky and high-pitched.

“I mean – I’m _fine_ , totally, but she’s – I was just wondering if you’re building this thing because somehow – not on purpose, but maybe through your – dreams or something, someone is… _telling_ you to?”

Stanford reaches out, very carefully, to curl his hands on Dipper’s shoulders, to steady him, trying, through some kind of telepathy or osmosis, to make him _not scared_ , because he suddenly, painfully, feels the urge to do so.

“No one is telling me what to do, Dipper,” he says, slowly, empathetically. “Metal plate, remember? Bill is gone. You are never going to see him again – this is a fact, Dipper, from a very smart man.” He pauses, and then adds, his voice pitching lower. “No one is ever going to boss me around again.”

He curls the corners of his mouth upwards, first one side, and then the other. Dipper hesitates, and then returns his smile in kind. Stanford gives his shoulders a tiny squeeze.

“Good. You’re a good kid, Dipper, for worrying about your sister and me. But we’re both going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

Dipper exhales shakily, but he’s giving Stanford his crooked, sheepish grin. “I trust you, Grun- Great uncle Ford.”

“Good,” Stanford repeats. Dipper is still gazing at him when he turns away and continues. “And that Beale Papers cipher you deciphered was wrong. You made a mistake - no big deal.” He smiles at his own reflection on the screen, soon to be broadcasting different dimensions. “Really, you can just put it away and focus on other things. Like helping me! Won’t that be fun?”

Dipper doesn’t seem as grateful as Stanford would have expected, but it’s better this way. The boy doesn’t need to know that all roads lead back to Bill Cipher.

*

Bill is laughing, following the antics of his friends down below his pyramid, sitting primly like some princess in a tower. The inside of the bubble hasn’t changed from the roiling pit of fire and chaos and misery, Stanford is glad to note as he arrives. It makes him feel better for doing this.

The Henchmaniacs move like the Three Stooges, jerky and puppet-like, colliding with each other, stomping on houses and tripping on cars. Their features are simpler, their colours brighter – Stanford has never heard more than a few of them speak, Pyronica included. Xanthar and the other one with the hole in his head seem to be attempting to hoist a tree between them.

“Hey, Keyhole!” Bill calls out gleefully, and bursts into cackles when they turn and accidentally smack Hectorgon with the tree.

Stanford wonders why Bill doesn’t seem to realize it – wonders whether the bubble really gives him whatever wishes, whether this is how Bill actually _wants_ his so-called comrades. This is all Bill, Bill’s world, Bill’s wishes, but Stanford is almost _disappointed_ by how little Bill seems to settle for.

Bill looks up and sees him, and lights up – all glee and vicious, possessive joy – and Stanford feels a sudden jolt in his chest as he realizes _, oh. It’s me._

“I brought you something,” he says, walking down on the empty air towards Bill. “A bribe, as promised. Sorry I took so long, I made a rather interesting discovery –“

“Less talk, more loot!” Bill exclaims, holding out his hands – which turn black and brown and then golden and flickering – and he wriggles his fingers. “Gimme, gimme!”

Stanford holds out his shadowy claws, and cups them, carefully, as strange, silvery essence pools from the inside of his palms, and he turns his hands gently to let it find a shape.

“There is a living being, somewhere in this universe, a living, functioning, breathing _planet_ , twelve times as big as Earth,” he explains peacefully, a genuinely pleased warmth spreading in his chest. “Well – there was. This is its heart. It’s yours, now.”

Bill accepts the silver heart, which is still squirming – still pumping, still fighting for life, desperately – and regards it for a moment, impassively.

Then he eats it.

“Yuck,” he says, and then laughs. “Well, better than nothing, I guess!”

Stanford sighs and digs through his coat, until a tentacle hands him what he’s looking for. “I also brought you a Game Boy.”

“A _what_ now?” Bill asks, interest piqued, and practically pries the thing from Stanford’s claws.

Sometime later (an hour and fifty seconds), Stanford manages to take the Game Boy from Bill, wrench him from the fascinating world of Pokemon, and drag him into bed.

“I mean, this is fun!” Bill is saying. “It’s squishy. It’s a Thing To Do With A Body. But how’sabout you and I take a quick stroll around the globe –“ and he turns to Stanford, purring, his fingers stroking against Stanford’s face with a sensation like warm snowflakes, “we kick this into gear, we – each take a section, y’know, or – we do it together, yeah, we’ll make ‘em build _statues_ of us, so high that most of ‘em die while they’re building ‘em –“

Stanford curls his clawed hand around Bill’s, firmly.

“Later,” he says. “Where’s the rush, Bill? I’m still getting acquainted with these powers.”

“It’s just –“ and Bill pauses – for a moment his features look human, and his expression is lost, confused. “It’s funny – I feel like I’m forgetting something. But it’s not possible, right? I mean –“ and he stops, as his lips, see-through, glowing, fragile, move silently.

“I’m _Bill Cipher_. Right?”

Stanford leans in and presses their mouths together, hard and purposeful, and kisses whatever Bill shifts into, until he feels something kissing back.

“You and me, Stanford Pines,” Bill says, breathlessly, when Stanford lets him, his singular eye enormous, unblinking, hypnotic.

“That’s right,” Stanford says – anything to distract Bill, anything to keep him trapped forever, that’s all: he’s lying through his teeth, and all he can think is that Bill taught him well.

“Me, but also you, together, breaking this useless dimension into teeny tiny pieces and putting it back together like we want it, _together_ , right –“

“For now until the end of time,” Stanford says, bringing their hands together– and because love and hatred seem to be intertwined, surrounding them like a chokehold, because he can’t seem to be tender towards Bill without also being vicious, because this is all imaginary and doesn’t really matter, or so he tells himself – he adds: “Let me show you a new thing.”

He pauses.

“You’re going to need a mouth for this one,” he adds, roughly.

*

“The kids are leaving soon,” Stanley says.

It takes Stanford a moment to wrench himself back to the present, and he regards Stanley dumbly. “So?”

“So we can quit pretending everything’s fine,” Stanley says, sounding a little irritated. He hasn’t returned to running the Shack yet – Stanford hasn’t even seen him wear the suit. His brother walks around in his boxers, tousles the twins’ hair a lot, and drinks, mostly soda. “So ya can pop that bubble you got hidden away in that _space bunker_ and get rid of him, and we can – I don’t know, do something –“

“Like what?” Stanford asks coolly.

“Like –“ Stanley rubs his face, frustrated. “Y’know, somehow I thought we’d figure something out – after all that weird stuff that happened, it felt sort of like there should’ve been – a new beginning. I don’t know. Bygones. Something.” He takes a deep breath. “Never mind.”

“What’s wrong with how things are now?” Stanford asks. “We’re not fighting, are we?” He pauses. “A lot.”

“Why did you do it?” Stanley asks, abruptly, switching into a new lane. “Why did ya take that deal?”

“Speaking of fighting,” Stanford remarks, sourly. He puts down the book he’d been pretending to read, while he waited for the twins to sleep. “At that moment I didn’t really see I had much a choice. Besides, this was my plan from the beginning – and it worked, didn’t it?”

“And now you get to prance around, in that fake human skin, acting like a martyr every time I tell ya off for being a creep,” Stanley says in a low, sullen tone.

They stare at each other in the silence filled with the muffled sound of children upstairs.

Truth to be told, Stanford doesn’t want to be a part of this – he doesn’t want this stupid squabble, he doesn’t want to argue about how scared he was, how alone he felt, how Bill was there and how easy it felt – how he thought he could handle this and save everybody, and he _is_ , he’s handling it better than anybody, no matter what his brother thinks. He’s still Stanford Pines, the man who saved the world.

“I’m still me,” he says lowly. “I’m just _better_ , Stanley. I can keep us all safe.”   

“I _know_ you didn’t do it for _me_ ,” Stanley starts – but Stanford is already standing up, disengaging. He feels like his mind is fracturing, spreading across galaxies, carving itself deep into the fabric of the universe, and Stanley’s a small, petty old man. It feels better not caring: it feels easier.

He leaves Stanley sitting in the living room, and goes to check on Bill.  

*

He’s starting to get used to the constant screaming outside. (It’s fake, he tells himself, just because he feels he should. He doesn’t really need the reassurance. It’s just screaming.)

Bill’s hands sink into his chest, impaling him onto the bed, and Stanford pants and grips Bill tighter, lets him have his fun, before he flips them over. They’re both shapeless and monstrous, horrendously entangled with each other, and Stanford feels safe: Stanford feels _powerful_.  

Bill’s stopped asking him about the outside world.

Stanford wonders if it’s because the bubble’s working – the sky is tattered into shreds and Bill’s built himself a magnificent throne of humans. It seems to be what he wants – to tear and push and kick, to break things like a small child who’s been told too many times not to draw on the walls.  

Stanford tries to grab a hold of the shape shifting underneath him – his hands find thighs and then twisting glass, and then squirming tentacles – and he pants, his entire, terrifyingly intense focus on Bill.

He wonders if Bill’s confusion with his own shape is due to the bubble– and if so, what it might imply.

He suddenly wonders, too, whether the bubble is changing _him_ as well. The thought stops him, and he’s suddenly gripped with such uncertainty that he’s not prepared for it when Bill laughs and something crackling coils around his neck tightly.

He doesn’t think twice about slicing off the offending limb. Bill seems to find it funny too.

*

“Mabel?”

She’s packing up for the summer as Stanford knocks on the door-frame tentatively, and his eyes automatically drift to the window in the attic, before he looks at her again, nearly blinded when her braces catch the remnants of the setting sun.

“What’s up, great uncle Ford?” Mabel says, wrestling a sweater out of Waddles’ mouth. “Hey, do you think you could get my glue gun out of the ceiling?”

Stanford looks up, and then reaches out, wrenching the pastel blue glue gun off the supporting beam.

“Thanks!” Mabel beams, slipping it into one of her bags. “Are you looking for Dipper? He’s downstairs, probably burying his collection of photos of Wendy –“

“Actually,” Stanford clears his throat, resisting the urge to hunch down. Finally he decides to plop down onto Dipper’s bed, mindful of the fact that it’s literally covered in notes which rustle as he pushes them aside. “I was hoping to have a quick word with you. There’s something I’ve been wondering.”

“Really?” Mabel blinks, and then takes a seat, primly. “Okay – oh, is it lady trouble?” She lowers her voice, sympathetically. “I read your journals too.”

“What, no – no, I,” Stanford is momentarily derailed due to the prospect of discussing his love life with a thirteen-year-old. “That’s not – I’m fine, Mabel, don’t worry about – my ladies. Which I do not have. There are no ladies.” 

“That’s the problem!” Mabel cries out triumphantly. Stanford lets out a startled guffaw, surprising himself too.

“Mabel, not every person is cut out for that.” He sobers a bit. “Please, I need to ask you something – something you might not like to talk about. About the bubble Bill trapped you into.”

Mabel stops short and stares at him – her mouth performs some undecipherable quirk, and then she speaks, gingerly. “What about it?”

“When you were in it,” Stanford says, slowly, “do you think – do you think you could’ve broken out by yourself? Without – Dipper, Soos and Wendy interfering?”

“Oh,” Mabel shifts uncomfortably, her gaze slipping away, and then she leans down, to pick up Waddles, her long brown hair falling over her face in the process. “Probably not,” she says.

“But since it was all fake – did you, on some level, realize it?”

“It was everything I wanted, great uncle Ford,” Mabel says, squeezing Waddles and a hairclip out of his mouth. She’s not looking at him in the eyes, and he’s trying, but he can’t comprehend her expression.

“I mean,” Mabel continues. “It was _everything_? And – when you’re content, really content, you just don’t question it. I even invented my own _Dipper_ – I mean, I guess the bubble did it for me, but –“ she looks up, and Stanford is startled and alarmed to see her eyes watery and bright, “I would’ve stayed there! I would’ve probably – made up all of you, and I would’ve been _happy_! How bonkers is that?”

“Very bonkers,” Stanford says lowly. “But it wasn’t your fault, Mabel.”

“I know, I just –“ Mabel sniffs, and pushes her sleeve over her eyes once or twice, before she takes a deep breath, and smiles shakily. “Sometimes I stop and wonder whether I’m in a – _really_ good bubble. It was pretty convincing, you know.”

Stanford hesitates – but he has to ask: “How do you know this is real, then?”

“Because Bill could never come up with anything that went beyond the surface,” Mabel says. “I mean, it was all fun and glittery and perfect, but – it was all flat. I was constantly happy there. Everyone acted the way I wanted them to. That’s not _normal_.”

“But you never cried in the bubble, either,” Stanford says, quietly.

“Yeah,” Mabel says. “But I’m okay with that.”

And she sniffs and grins, as if to show it, before she pushes herself off the bed. As Stanford watches, she digs out a particularly hefty pink scrap-book, and opens it on one of the last pages.

“Here,” she says, and hands Stanford a photo. It’s obviously been taking candidly – Dipper stands in the front to the left, his mouth left open as he laughs, a bit of ice-cream melting down his chin. Stanley’s blurry, but his smirk is visible as he stands behind Stanford – who’s nearly bent in half in a desperate effort to retrieve a bit of popsicle from the inside of his sweater. Stanford remembers it – coming upstairs, a few days before Weirdmageddon, and making the unfortunate mistake of going anywhere near his brother wielding a frozen confectionary.

He’d glued Stanley’s fingers together the day after.

“If you ever feel like you’re in a bubble, great uncle Ford,” Mabel says, smiling up at him, her mouth crooked.

“Thank you, Mabel,” Stanford says hoarsely. He stares at the man in the photo, even as she resumes packing, for a long time after, and wonders why it doesn’t make him feel anything.

*

Stanford pushes through the surface of the bubble, as his shape shifts and changes, his outlines becoming blurry – it feels like coming home, like taking off your tight clothes after a long day at work.

He rises into the air and faces the chaos and destruction that seems awfully familiar and dull by now. Pyronica and Hectorgon are playing Spin the Human, somewhere below him, but they’re still, and the human spins and spins, and never stops – it must mean Bill’s attention is elsewhere.

Stanford hesitates, and then focuses on the two figures on the ground. Pyronica seems to stir awake, and looks up, giving him a coquettish wave. Stanford doesn’t return it – he’s not sure what he was trying to do, anyway. He floats towards the pyramid.

Bill’s not waiting for him, which is unusual. Stanford feels his coat, feels the shape of the mirror he’s bringing for Bill, and stops at the hole on pyramid, his feet touching the ground. Somewhere, echoing in the complex, and utterly illogical corridors of Bill’s pyramid, he hears faint conversation. As he starts walking, he feels a bang of some inscrutable emotion in his chest, because Bill’s brought one of his friends up into the pyramid, and Stanford’s not sure what it means – but at least Bill’s entertaining himself while he’s away. The happier Bill keeps himself, the less difficult he gets, he assures himself.

Stanford floats himself through the stone, up, up, until his head pops out of the lush carpet, the rest of him following suit. The first thing he sees is Bill, sitting in one of the chairs in the penthouse, unusually fixed in shape – his triangle shape – with a game of chess floating in the air before him.

“Sixer! So nice to –“ and Bill stops, scowling abruptly. “Wait – if you’re there… and he’s _here_ … then – _who’s_ drinking all of my martinis?”

Stanford takes a step forward, and the other chair comes to his full vision – and he stares at his own, startled face.

Bill laughs. “Silly me! _I’m_ drinking the martinis!” He chugs the one he’s holding, immediately conjuring another one.

“Bill, I think you’ve had enough,” the other Stanford says, in a voice identical to Stanford’s – but he looks wrong, he looks younger, and human, fresh-faced and gentle. He's wearing a horrendous mustard shirt, a sweater vest and a worried expression.

“Bill,” Stanford says lowly, even though he can guess – even though he knows, because obviously he’s the real Stanford, and the other is a fake created by the bubble. “What is this, Bill?”

“I’m playing with two of my favourite humans!” Bill announces, obviously tipsy, waving his drink around, splashing it onto the board. “Surprise! They’re both _you_! Turns out most humans are pretty dumb!”

The Other Stanford lets out a nervous chuckle, trying to take the glass from Bill. “You must’ve known more humans than I can count – “

“Hey, c’mon, I said I’d take a sip every time ya lost –“ Bill laughs, loud and high-pitched – “See, I’m giving ya handicap here –“ He pulls his hand back, staining the Other Stanford’s shirt, but it’s like he’s playing – swatting playfully before he downs his drink hurriedly, like a naughty child.

“Get out,” Stanford says to the Other Stanford – he doesn’t know what to do with him, but he can’t watch this. Dimly, he reminds himself that his doppelganger isn’t even real, that he’s just imaginary, made up by the bubble – but it doesn’t help, because it means that this is what Bill _wants_.

“I –“ Other Stanford says, and glances at Bill, before he visibly steels himself – Stanford suddenly hates that determined, stupid tilt of his own jaw, stupid heroics he no longer recognizes as his own. “I don’t think I should. I think it’s better if I stay here. How about _you_ get o- “

It’s as far as he gets, before Stanford’s bright red, angry fire envelops him, turns him into a living, writhing human torch for just a brief second before he’s gone.

The chess board falls onto the floor, pieces scattering everywhere.

Bill looks at the dark patch on the carpet, where Other Stanford stood, and then looks at Stanford, obviously put-upon, sullen – and his image flickers again. “Why did’ya do _that_ for?”

Stanford, panting very quietly, takes the mirror out of his pocket – it cracks in his hands, but he doesn’t care, let it reflect as many different faces as Bill owns. He throws it onto the floor and storms out.

*

The real world is still dark when he returns to the Shack – the kids are leaving in the morning. They’d thrown a party, and the lawn is covered in silly string and remnants of water balloons, and cake that Soos had dropped on the ground, and somehow Stanford can still hear the laughter, as if a part of him still lingers in the past. His feet touch the porch and he realizes, with a start, that he hadn’t been walking.

Stanley opens the door and regards him silently.

“Get out of my way,” Stanford says. “I’m going to bed.”

“D’you even sleep anymore?” Stanley asks. He doesn’t budge – he just stands there in his flippers, scratching his stomach absently, and Stanford can’t even make out his features properly, can’t decide whether a downwards mouth means good or bad, whether Stanley pities or hates him.

“I like lying in bed,” he says, through his teeth. Stanley’s eyebrows twitch upwards.

“Yer not coming in until you get a hold of yerself, Sixer.”

“Get a hold of–“ Stanford stops, and looks down at himself – and it looks all _wrong_ against the whole and unharmed wood of the porch that represents the normalcy, his drifting tendrils of shadows, the flickering, bright stars that seem to hide in the folds of his coat, the monstrous curving claws. He’d forgotten to change back.

Stanley’s talking, and it takes an effort comparable to the shifting of continents for Stanford to drag himself back into a state where he’s listening.

“ – yer not – I don’t think you _realize_ how different you are, Ford. You stare at people but it feels like yer not really all there, and sometimes your feet don’t touch the ground, and frankly I think the kids know something’s up, because of the things yer saying when you don’t pay attention – “

Stanley shifts, and his brows furrow, like he’s struggling what to say next – he looks like Dipper, one calloused hand worrying his forearm.

“I’m worried about ya! Okay? I’m worried – yer not that subtle. Even a petty old man like me can see it.”

“What?” Stanford asks, taken aback. Stanley’s mouth does something complicated, quirks upwards like he’s in pain.

“You think out loud a lot, Sixer.”

“I – “ Stanford pauses. “I need to go. Again.”

“Just change back,” Stanley says, and takes a step forward, reaching out for him – Stanford realizes, dimly, that Stanley hasn’t tried to touch him ever since Weirdmageddon, but now he’s holding out his hand, expression intent and hungry, staring at him.

“Change back, Sixer,” Stanley says roughly. “Back to human, yeah? We’ll say goodbye to the kids in the morning, and then we’ll figure this out, together –“

“I’m not human anymore!” Stanford hisses, losing his patience. Stanley seems to shrink – or then Stanford is growing, and the porch getting darker. “Get it through your thick skull, Stanley – this is irreversible! This is permanent! This – is – how – it – is – now – _is that simple enough for you_? There’s nothing we can just ‘figure out’, there’s nothing we can fix with a can-do attitude, this is just me, this is just - ” His claws curl around the pole next to the door, sink in, the wood splintering loudly. “Do you have any idea – how _powerful_ I am?”

Stanley stares up at him, barely visible in the thick, coiling shadows gathered on the meagre, banged-up porch, but his mouth is a thin, colourless line, when he finally speaks.

“Go be a demon, then,” he says blandly. “Go be powerful and mighty ‘n – god-like. Get it all out. Out of yer system.” He turns, opening the door. “Come back in the morning, before the kids leave.”

He leaves Stanford heaving and hissing, falling apart at the front of the Shack, and the door clicks quietly shut behind him.

*

Bill doesn’t question why he’s back – Bill doesn’t question _anything_ , just laughs wildly when he and Stanford fly out of the pyramid holding hands, when Stanford opens the ground beneath them, when he rips trees out and plants them back in upside down, when the artificial eternally fleeing humans below them scream and run away like they should.

He finally understands something – the raw, breath-taking beauty of destruction that Bill seems to thrive on. His countless eyes spread across the sky, his consciousness feels like a swarm of bees, buzzing and filling every crook and nook of the valley: he’s like a force of nature, like something that doesn’t have to worry, something that takes and _breaks_ whatever it gets.

“Hey, check this out!” Bill calls, and lifts up a human that Stanford barely recognizes: Bill turns his hands and _twists_ , here and there and Stanford doesn’t even recognize the thing as human anymore.

“I made a Poke-man!” Bill says, and cackles gleefully, shrinking his creation proudly.

Stanford looks down at the humans, small and insignificant and irritating, and remembers what he did to his own younger image – and he floats down, starts to burn them one by one, like a child playing with a magnifying glass, and every sound that abruptly stops makes him snarl louder, and he hears breathless, hoarse laughter and realizes that it’s his own. Everything is fire and chaos and he’s so calm, as he watches the people trample over each other to get away from him, and he wonders what Stanley would think now, what he’d say if he could see this – and then, then, the crowd parts, and lo and behold – there he is, as if summoned, as if brought here by some miracle.  

All of Stanford’s eyes turn towards him just as the Other Stanley turns to stare up at him.

“Hey!” Bill calls out, his voice echoing somewhere above him. “Doesn’t he look _familiar_ to ya?”

Stanford’s not thinking anymore – fire roars all around him, all the noises drowned by the unison screaming of human beings in pain, and Stanley’s features are clearer and sharper than any other human’s in the bubble, every line, every miniscule detail of his face visible to him, and for once Stanford _recognizes_ the expression on his face.

It’s fear.

He lifts his clawed hand, slowly, and a house raises into the air, somewhere on their left, floating over, pieces of it shedding on the way.

“No,” he says, his voice echoing as well. “No, he doesn’t.”

With a flick of his wrist, he brings the house down.

The last thing he sees, right before it lands, is Stanley, mouthing something up at him.

*

The sound of the house crashing onto the ground echoes throughout Gravity Falls – the bubble, really, and Stanford stares at his handiwork like he can’t see it anymore, like he can’t comprehend what he just did, and he feels himself shiver, an uncontrollable tremble, like an earthquake happening somewhere deep within his core.

Bill floats next to him, laughing, flickering image of taunting gold, a glowing eye, a winged wheel, a collection of sounds made into colours, like he’s there to show what Stanford’s become, and what he can never, ever reach – but Stanford’s the one in control! And suddenly he wants to tell Bill everything, if only to watch him break.

He crashes into Bill abruptly, sending them both hurdling down onto the ground.

Bill lets out a surprised yelp, but Stanford stifles it, claims his mouth as it shifts under his lips, pushes him down – and he’s panting, unhinged, clawing at Bill, tearing him with his claws like paper as he straddles him, and Bill’s barely fighting back. Stanford’s tendrils slip into Bill, impale and invade him and he’s not sure what he wants to do, kill him or have sex with him or just _own_ him, possess him like Bill possessed him, but Bill writhes underneath him and kisses him back with his mouth open and clumsy, like he’s urging him on.

“I beat you,” Stanford snarls, hoarse and panting, he screams over the noise and the bubble falls silent: his is the only voice echoing around in its depths, “I bested you, defeated you, _humiliated_ you, Bill Cipher, I did, I won, I won _you_ –“

“What –“ Bill starts, but Stanford pushes his hand down and covers his mouth and kisses the other mouth, until Bill starts squirming, and he continues to speak, staring down at the enormous wide eye.

“I’m _better_ than you – I tricked you and you _believed_ it, because you’re not as smart as you think, Bill, no, no, oh no - not when you think you’re getting what you want. I tricked you and you still haven’t figured it out – “ his voice cracks for some reason ” _You still haven’t figured it out!”_

“What do you mean?” Bill asks – different flickering images, bleeding and torn, staring at him, lost and pliant, and Stanford wants to claw Bill’s eyes out, all of them, he wants Bill to know that he’s kept in a cage and never let out again, he wants to be horrible and beautiful, like Bill, he wants Bill to look at him like he looks at Bill –

 He raises his hand and thinks about chains and collars.

From the remnants of his ragged coat, a photo falls out – falling in light zig-zags, landing onto Bill’s chest.

Stanford stares at it, for a long, frozen moment, and then counts the time.

“What do you mean?” Bill asks again – his voice unnaturally small for him. “Sixer, what do you _mean_?”

Two hours, and forty minutes.

“N –“ Stanford starts – he swallows, and takes the photo, carefully.

His hand turns and cups Bill’s momentary face, and he says, uselessly, because he doesn’t know what to say: “Nothing. That – Forget I said that.”

“Oh,” Bill says – and he flickers again, something dreamy passing across what could be called an expression. “Oh, okay. Gotcha.”

Stanford pauses, gripping the photograph, staring at him blankly. “Just like that?”

“Just like what?”

“You –“ Stanford swallows, some nameless dread creeping in. “You’re just going to forget I said all that?”

“Said all what?” Bill asks – and he sounds sly, he sounds normal, but there is a strange, agreeable tone to his voice that Stanford doesn’t understand, a sort of ease that doesn’t fit Bill. He stares at Bill – and then focuses, for a moment, on the familiar triangle shape.

Bill ceases to flicker, slowly, and they stare at each other, Stanford’s multiple eyes, and Bill’s glowing yellow, single enormous eye in the middle of the triangle.

Stanford feels cold all over.

He _knows_ what it is, he knows even before he really knows.

Perhaps it’s the fact that Stanford created it, perhaps he really is _stronger_ than Bill – but somehow the bubble is favouring his desires, and in return, overriding Bill’s. The bubble is his.

For the first time in a long time, Stanford feels a stab of guilt he can’t logic away: for the first time in a long while, he feels _sorry_ for Bill.

He’s in control, but he doesn’t feel triumphant anymore. There’s no one else to blame. This is all him.

As he watches, the sky above them turns purple, and the bubble, the imaginary Gravity Falls, is empty and silent.

The photograph is wrinkling in his enormous claws. The kids are about to wake up, and he knows – he’s going back.

Bill starts flickering again, helplessly, like he can’t decide what he is – like _Stanford_ can’t decide what Bill is to him, held down against the ground, pinned like a butterfly on a needle.

He leans down, and presses a soft, soft kiss above Bill’s eye. 

*

Mabel is sobbing, and holding onto Waddles. Stanley, in his usual gruff way, is nearly yelling at her to take him – Dipper’s saying something about their parents and an unfortunate llama incident when they were eight.

Stanford steps forward, and gently shrinks Waddles down to the size of a guinea pig.

Mabel lets out a startled shriek. “Grun- Great – Grunkle Ford! What – how did’ya _do_ that?!”

“Is it a shrinking ray?” Dipper yelps. “Did you make _shrinking_ shrinking ray, Grunkle Ford? Where is it?”

Stanley turns to stare at him incredulously.

Stanford smiles slowly, crookedly. “I’ll explain everything in a letter, once you’re back home. But I think you can convince your parents to take Waddles now – if not, let me know. We’ll come and talk to them personally.”

Mabel flings herself to Stanford, wraps her arms around his midsection for a moment with a surprisingly powerful squeeze, laughing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stanley mutters, eyeing them, but he looks reluctantly impressed. “He’s wonderful. A real wonder-Grunkle.”

“You’re _both_ wonderful!” Mabel exclaims, moving to hug him as well.

Stanford catches Dipper’s eyes, and smiles at him tentatively, carefully. Dipper hesitates, and then returns the smile twice as bright.

A part of him cannot help it, cannot help watching this scene from afar, like a person viewing a minor detail in a painting, distant and objective. He’s capable of spreading himself so far now that he knows he can never go back the way he was.

He clutches the worn photo in his pocket to focus, waves the children goodbye, and hopes that Stanley will understand: the power thrumming inside him makes him feel like he’s containing a hurricane.

He thinks about Bill, left in the bubble under the hill. He wonders whether Bill finds it as hard to be kind as Stanford does.

He hopes, at least, that Bill is going to like _Legend of Zelda_.


End file.
